


Regret and Trust

by Mischiefs_Hawk



Series: The Consulting Criminal and the Ex-army Doctor [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 07:43:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10635372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mischiefs_Hawk/pseuds/Mischiefs_Hawk
Summary: John explains what happened to him while Sherlock was 'dead.'





	

“So care to explain?”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“John, I cannot help you if you don’t let me.”

John’s shoulders stiffened for a moment, freezing for a moment before continuing his menial task of putting away groceries. A few days ago John had received the most unorthodox of presents, the decapitated head of his dead wife’s assassin and the heart of the man who placed the hit on her. 

As well as the news of James Moriarty coming back from the grave. 

The week kept getting better and better for John Watson.

He had taken the head and the heart to Bart’s to have Molly do DNA testing on both.

Both proved to be positives on the men Moriarty claimed them to be.

The head of Mary’s assassin, Tom Romanova.

The heart of Charles Augustus Magnussen.

There were no other prints of DNA on the paper or anything else that could relate to Moriarty or Moran but both occupants of 221b knew the two were up to something.

Sherlock didn’t know how but Moriarty was alive, he just couldn’t explain it. It was frustrating him to no end.

Once both tests came back conclusive, John began living again. He went out to buy groceries, cleaned up the flat, took a bloody shower, and updated his blog.

He and Sherlock didn’t talk about Mary, but the man hadn’t removed his wedding band yet.

It had been about a week since the day the package had arrived.

“What makes you think I need your help?” John asked, placing a case of beer in the fridge while resisting the urge to throw away the bag of thumbs in the highest level.

“The Napoleon of Crime has come back from the dead just to… to… What? Give you a wedding gift? A courting present? Why is Moriarty back and here for you?” Sherlock frowned, his mind the usual whirlwind of thoughts as he tried to solve one of the few puzzles that actually mattered. 

‘Only he couldn’t solve the problem without all the facts, could he?’ James voice taunted in John’s head.

Sherlock didn’t know what happened to John the first year after his fake suicide. 

What John did, who John gave his soul, his heart, and his body to.

The doctor regretted nothing nearly as much as he did that year.

“You know something.” The consulting detective had him cornered now between the fridge and the counter. His crystalline blue eyes seeming to stare directly into John.

“John, what is it? What have I missed?” Although it was spoken aloud, John could plainly hear the hurt in his best friend’s voice.

“Sherlock, I can’t.” John wanted to close his eyes, to go back to before the damned fall, to fall back in time to a place where he could tell Sherlock anything and everything.

Oh wait, that was never. Had he and Sherlock ever had that sort of relationship? Before His wedding, John had never even heard if Sherlock actually liked him or if he just kept him around like a bloody pet!

Frustration was quickly building up in the short statured man.

The insecurities of his relationship with Sherlock, how Sherlock saw him, and about a thousand other things hitting him all at once, all equaling out to make him feel like a bloody school girl.

Bloody buggering fucking hell.

“John, tell me.” Sherlock’s voice broke him from his thoughts, like he had attempted to do so many times before to Sherlock only to fail every time. 

Now here Sherlock was, doing what John couldn’t for him.

That was the typical standard so why was it surprising him?

“Fine.” He responded, pushing Sherlock out of the way to go sit in the den. 

His leg was bothering him.

“Make a cuppa and I’ll tell you.”

A few minutes later, escorted by the sound of boiling water and the clatter of teacups, saucers, milk, and sugar Sherlock followed the past steps of his flatmate. Placing the antique silver tray on the table next to John, Sherlock took his seat across him. 

“Okay, go on then.” The detective’s hand folded together as he leaned forward, completely ignoring the tea he made.

This was more interesting, John assumed.

“When you were uh… dead I wasn’t in a good place. I couldn’t stay here because of whatever. I was in a lot of pubs, spent way too much money. People tried to help, Lestrade Ms.Hudson, Molly but nothing worked. Then one night, a black car picked me up. I figured it was your brother so I got in. It wasn’t your brother, obviously. Though if it was, I probably would have punched him.” 

Sherlock smiled at that, no doubt wishing he could see such a sight.

“Instead Moriarty was in there.”

“Obviously.” 

“Do you want me to finish?”

“Yes, alright. Go on.” Sherlock said, nodding. Of course unaware to his own rudeness.

“So he was in there, Westwood suit and all but there was something different about him. He didn’t seem as spider-ish.”

“Please recall your speaking to me and not one of your ridiculous blog fans.”

“Shut up, it was your own nick name for him. Anyway”

-One year ago-

“What are you doing? Here to gloat?” John asked, his voice a drunken slur as his eyes tried to stay open. 

The consulting criminal was silent, watching the army doctor with intense scrutiny. It made John uncomfortable, which he had no problem telling Moriarty who didn’t seem to care that John had spoken. 

His black car started up, driving to god knows where. John should have asked where he was being taken, but the ex-army doctor couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Finally, Moriarty spoke up.

“What are you doing to yourself, John? Going out, getting drunk every night, not going to work. What are you doing?”

“Why do you care? O-or is thisss all a part of you and his stupid game? Haven’t you won already? He’s in the bloody ground for Christ’s sake!” 

Moriarty froze at the words, for only a moment. Much too short a time for a drunken man to notice even someone like John.

“I care because I care about you. Unlike Sherlock who kept you around like a bloody lap dog, I would have appreciated your words, taken it into consideration. Not tell you you’re a idiot, like our dearly departed virgin. 

He kept you around just to hear how brilliant he was. I suppose the NYS was getting boring for him and goodness knows he wasn’t getting it from Big Brother.

Sherlock wanted compliments, to be called brilliant and fantastic. You fit the bill, fixing the psychosomatic limp was just a ploy to get you to trust him.”

“Shut up!” John practically roared at him, incapable of listening to another second of Moriarty’s lies. He knew Sherlock was a bit of a prat, and a drama queen, and he was completely new to the idea of being complimented but Sherlock hadn’t befriended him as a ploy to have John as a pet. That was ridiculous. No, Sherlock Holmes may have been a dick but he wasn’t manipulative. He couldn’t have been, John would have noticed, wouldn’t he?

The song of the alcohol flowing through his veins whispered his insecurities that Sherlock had never cared. 

That he had really been nothing but a toy for Sherlock to play with until he grew bored. 

Useless.

Without meaning to, John flashed back to when he was a child.

Hiding his sister from the harsh words and strong punches of their father. Mr. Watson had come home every Friday night from whatever pub had allowed him in as drunk as a sailor. His own problems with money surfacing in his drunken rage as he beat his youngest child and only son.

“Stupid little brat, why don’t cha go get a job? Ya always sittin’ there doin’ nothin’. So freakin’ USELESS! You and ya sister. Stupid bitches the both of ya, gotta pay every damned bill cause neither of ya will go out and get any money.” 

Mr. Watson would beat them until they were unconscious, or he was. Either way both of them learned how to apply cover up from a young age. 

Every night, every beating, Mr. Watson always told him the same thing, called him it so it would haunt his dreams until he learned of a worse hell in Afghanistan. 

Useless.

“John, please let me show you. Let me help you.” Moriarty’s words called him from the pain of his memories into the horror of the present. 

“Where is he, then?”

John really could appreciate the look of surprise on Moriarty’s face, surprised that John was able to guess it or that he was able to guess it while drunk John wasn’t sure.

“He wouldn’t have committed suicide just because everyone was going to think he was a fake. He would fight them, like I said, he would outlive God trying to have the last word. So where is he then?”

The car stopped, john glanced out the window to see a series of nicer white flats. He wasn’t entirely sure where he had been taken to.

The younger man slid out of the car, quickly stepping around to the other side to open the door for John.

Stumbling out of the car, He would have fallen if Jim hadn’t caught his arm. Jim kept him steady, helping him walk into one of the flats. 

John glared at him, when he wasn’t tripping over his own two feet. Bringing him out of the hallway and into the Den, Jim helped him sit down on one of the room’s two black couches.

John rested his head against the back of the couch, his breathing slowing, probably about to pass out.

“Don’t go to sleep yet, Johnny. I don’t fancy the idea of moving your unconscious body into the guest room.” 

John rolled his eyes, before closing them and falling against the arm of the couch. Jim frowned, pulling out his phone and sending a text to Moran.

Got him. Though he fell asleep on the couch. Move him into the room I set up. –M

Opening a bottle of wine, Jim sat on the other couch across from where John slept. Swirling and sipping at the red liquid, he watched the ex-army doctor with no small amount of glee. A plan that had taken about three years to pull together was finally coming to tuition. 

He hadn’t lied to John, despite what John believed. It was the truth, he cared for John. 

Moriarty didn’t care for the detective who was currently running around Asia.

-PRESENT DAY-

“Then I woke up the next day in a guest room. Moriarty made breakfast, we talked.” John shrugged.

“And you stayed.”

“And I stayed.”

Sherlock leaned back in the modern black chair, crossing his legs. 

“For how long?”

“Uh, about 10 or 11 months.”  
The consulting detective frowned at this, his eyes narrowing at whatever conclusion his thought process had gotten to. 

“You began a sexual relationship with James Moriarty.”

“Er, yeah. Yeah we had sex.” 

Sherlock’s eyes scrunched up, as they did when he was trying to see something that no one else would notice. 

“But there’s something else. It wasn’t just sexual.”

Suddenly feeling the weight of the thin silver necklace hidden underneath his cream colored jumped, John nodded. 

“Yeah. Uh .” fumbling a bit from nerves, John revealed the ring to his flat mate.

Sherlock held out his hand for John to place the ring in. It was a lovely little thing, made of yellow gold with a thin line of a darker metal. Something like blackened silver-possibly platinum. Moriarty did like show off his wealth, Sherlock thought to himself. 

“Is this an engagement ring or a wedding ring?” 

John was going to need two hands to count off the times Sherlock asked a question, if the day kept going the way it was now.

“Engagement. We didn’t get the chance to do a proper ceremony, his work hours kept getting longer and longer. Then one day I woke up and he was gone. 

No note or anything else. I figured that was it, packed up, haven’t heard from him since we got the package.”

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't edited, like at all. I just wanted to get it out of the way and post it.  
> If you enjoy my stuff, consider buying me a coffee (UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES DO YOU HAVE TO) http://ko-fi.com/D1D06I0X


End file.
